


𝙈𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙨

by LadyLaviniya



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe, Mean Girls - Richmond/Benjamin/Fey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Presents, Dogs, Father-Daughter Relationship, JD is a family man, Loving Marriage, Married Couple, Minor Violence, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Regina George is a little bitch, Revenge, TW: Suicide Mention, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLaviniya/pseuds/LadyLaviniya
Summary: JD’s going to give his girl the best Christmas present ever. Something she’s had her eye on for a long time.The blood of her enemy.Fresh.
Relationships: Janis Sarkisian & Veronica Sawyer, Jason "J. D." Dean & Janis Sarkisian, Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	𝙈𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙨

**Author's Note:**

> tw for **suicide mention** , **some violence** , **murder**.
> 
> Title comes from the 2014 Carmilla Christmas special!

“ _Heyyyy_ , Dad!” he says, knocking on her bedroom door in a rare show of good form, “Can I get a hint to my Christmas present this year?”

She doesn’t tolerate his kind of play. Never has. When she was three, she promised if he called her ‘Pops’ or ‘Daddy-o’ _one_ more time, when he knew _damn_ well that _he_ was the daddy, she’d scream—and she did. Many times. And Veronica would come rushing in, armed with whatever she had in her hand at the moment—a pen, a knife, a letter opener; almost always something small and nearby, one time her hairdryer—and she’d shake her head and grumble “You two...” before dragging Janis off elsewhere to calm down. Usually with a faint smile.

But now that she’s older, she at least has the capability to understand, maybe even appreciate, the irony.

She opens the door a crack, dyed black hair unintentionally falling over one eye—caked in black liner and shadow. Smoky, raccoon-like. God knows her sleeping schedule is shit—head cocked at an angle, bulky black noise-cancelling headphones Veronica bought for her birthday blasting the tunes of some female singer with edgy vocals resting round her neck.

He can’t help but smile. His little girl is growing up way too fast. Outside, the spitting image of her mother; but inside, she was all him. A perfect combination. Ideal.

“You’re _hilarious_ ,” she says, glaring up at him with her dark eyes, “ _Kid_.”

His hand flies to the nape of his neck as his head dips in acquiescence to her claim. He grins. “Just thought I’d bring you a little holiday cheer.” He pushes the door when she goes to shut it in his face, a not-so-rare occurrence. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. “Alright, seriously now. What _would_ you like for Christmas, little girl?”

The song changes. She sighs. With pursed lips, her gaze drops as she considers her options. When she looks up again, fire is dancing in her eyes. Through clenched teeth, she mutters:

“Regina George’s head on a _fucking_ silver platter.”

When she shuts the door this time, he allows it. There’s a small thud as she presses her back to it, her music sliding to the floor, and he mimics her, still standing. He chuckles, the smirk stretching his thin lips from ear to ear.

“Never did like her much myself.”

* * *

Veronica is in top form today, waltzing through the kitchen humming carols under her breath as she prepares batches of cookies and latkes and rich cups of steaming cocoa. She spins into his arms naturally, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek as she tilts her head back, enveloping him in the smell of a bakery and the warm fuzzy glow of scented candles long after his breath goes when he kisses her properly. She tastes like gingerbread. Her quirks keep him sane.

“You’re, uh, going all-out this year, aren’tcha?” he asks, watching as she takes out what must be her tenth batch today. He follows her to the table where cookies shaped like stars and stockings and Christmas trees lie on cooling racks next to blank canvas gingerbread people. There are three racks there, but she’s been up since six. He picks up a gingerbread person without a head and looks at her.

She rolls her eyes and points up at the ceiling.

“Ah.”

“Yup.” She shakes her head, giggling a little as she leans into him, crown under his chin. He wraps his arms around her frame, one hand on her waist, the other around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “I _might_ be overdoing it a _bite_.”

“I don’t blame ya...” he murmurs, “This year was a rough one. But I don’t think the kid’s gonna want to numb her feelings by eating her weight in vegan sugar cookies and potato pancakes.”

“Hey, _those_ are for Martha. And Heather.”

He laughs, kissing her temple before pulling away. “Listen, I finally got a solid answer from little Ronnie on what would make her Christmas morning, so if things don’t go according to plan, I might be a little late in coming home tonight.”

Veronica blinks, ever the skeptic, folding her arms as she shifts her weight onto one foot. “What does she want?”

“Alright, listen...” He licks his lips, palms facing one another, fingers curling to form the general shape of a ball between his hands. “It’s this... _ball_ thing. That you put in the water... and it explodes.” Her eyes widen and he fights off the urge to smirk. “It’s like if you took a pen—” he pretends to hold a pen, “and you—” he drops it, “—in the tub, and the ink _pollutes_ the entire—”

“Oh my _God_!” Veronica cries, hands flying to her mouth before moving them upwards to rake her hair. “A _bath bomb_.”

He laughs at her from the bottom of his belly, a good, genuine, honest-to-God laugh, backing away when she feebly pushes him and pounds his shoulders with the sides of her fists. There’s no force in her attack, so he scoops her up and kisses her well, bending her backwards and away from her cookies, relaxing his shoulders when she wraps her arms around them and runs her warm fingers through his hair. He kisses her and kisses her, sucking on her lower lip to tease her, chuckling when she giggles, the tip of his nose brushing against hers as he gazes deep into her eyes.

It’s right that he worships her. She is absolutely perfect.

No, she’s _beyond_ perfect. Perfection _pales_ in comparison to Veronica Sawyer.

“ _Ahem_.”

Well. She only has one equal.

Janis slouches against the wall by the stairs, headphones still hugging her neck, dark lipstick more pronounced in the fresh winter light. She eyes them from toe to tip, nose scrunching when she reaches their faces. “Can you guys _not_?”

He leans into Veronica when she turns around completely, looping an arm about her neck like a scarf as he whispers in her pink ear, “If there’s one out there called ‘Lump of Coal,’ she’s getting that one in her stocking tomorrow.”

Veronica laughs, throwing her head back against his shoulder. “ _Stop_!” She slips under his arm and turns around to deliver a sharp shush as she crosses the kitchen to meet Janis under the threshold, an arm outstretched to pull her into a hug, and pressing a kiss to Janis’ forehead the second she’s able.

Janis tries not to smile as she leans into her, only half-succeeding.

“I was gonna come get you, but now that you’re here, you wanna help me decorate the cookies?”

“Are you kidding? _Of course_ I do!” Janis smiles the brightest for Veronica. Always has. She’s Veronica’s girl no matter what, and that’s how it should be.

Veronica is a wonderful mother.

Best of wives and best of women.

* * *

He grabs his duster from the back of his side of the closet and puts it on for the first time in years. Veronica’s got him wearing other things most days, but old habits die hard. He also grabs his wallet, the keys to his bike, and Veronica’s round sunglasses when he notices them, stuffing the first two into the right pocket of his jeans and hooking the glasses to the other.

If he keeps at a steady pace, she won’t notice.

Janis’ laughter reverberates throughout the halls, bouncing off the floors as he goes downstairs. Pictures of her and them taken from all over decorate the walls: from picture day at school to toddler photoshoots where she’s holding carrots as big as her to snapshots of the three of them on various vacations: camping, sightseeing, Disney. There’s some with her cousins, others her grandparents—maternal, natch—and others still where she’s center frame and enjoying the iconic moments of an idyllic childhood: the palms of her hands completely covered in fingerpaint; striking a pose in that year’s Halloween costume; blowing out the candles on her tenth birthday; her silly little face sticking out with rosy cheeks while her body laid completely buried under a red-orange leaf pile. He sees her cheesy smile every single day before he goes to work and after he comes home, immortalized in those pictures.

That little girl deserves the world.

And the girl he knows now deserves to feel safe.

She deserves happiness.

She _deserves_ _justice_.

That is the ultimate gift. There might not be a way he’ll top it next year. But only time will tell.

Veronica meets him at the base of the stairs with his phone in her hand and a pointed look on her face.

“Don’t you forget about _this_ now, JD,” she says, her stern frown dissolving into a schoolgirl smile when he slips it out of her hand and plants a peck on her lips as thanks. “If the power goes out or you’re stuck in traffic, we need to stay in touch.”

“Give my regards to the Heathers and Dunnstocks,” he murmurs. Janis rolls her eyes and goes back to piping her cookies when his eye wanders to her. He smirks. “And make sure _that one_ doesn’t stay up past midnight or Santa’s not going to bring her any presents this year.”

“ _Haaaa_...” Janis intones without looking up from her work.

Veronica presses a finger to his cheek, turning his attention back onto her. “I’m her mother, not a miracle worker. I can put her to bed but she’ll sleep when she sleeps and there is _nothing_ I can do about it.”

He grins. “You’re resourceful. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Pulling back now, he throws a lazy salute toward Janis before turning toward the door. “Later, junior.”

“Dad—hold up!”

He turns again as Janis’ chair scrapes the hardwood floor and she bounds toward them, one hand behind her back. She stops just an arm’s length away, and he cocks his head at her.

Her eyes flicker to a smiling Veronica before landing back on him. “Hold out your wrist.”

“Uh...” _He_ looks at Veronica, but nothing changes. So he offers her his wrist, hand limp. She grabs it and flips his hand over, holding it steady as she drops a huge star-shaped cookie onto his palm. A thin layer of yellow icing coats the top, bordered by thin white edges with the points emphasized by dollops of white dots, and ‘ ** _U tried_** ’ piped in thick black frosting with an actual eye in place of the tittle.

Beside him, Veronica smothers a giggle. A corner of Janis’ lips curl up in a smirk.

“Just thinking ahead.”

* * *

“And wear your mask!” Veronica calls after him.

Good call.

He finishes the cookie as he warms up his bike, slipping on the shades, his mask, and a black bandana over his nose. Then he sets off.

Bruno is a good boy. He lifts his head from between his paws when he hears him coming, bouncing on his pads and pushing against the chain link fence when JD slides into his usual spot. Normally the pup doesn’t like when he can’t see a face, but he makes an exception for his master.

“Awh yeah—how’s my boy?”

He lifts up the latch to the wooden door leading into his small office—or the Shed, as he calls it—and Bruno digs his way in, offering sloppy wet kisses to his cheeks, his large bushy tail _thwack-thwack-thwacking_ at the side of his desk in pure excitement only a dog can express. When he remembers, he brings up his Christmas gift from his special cubbyhole—a red squeaky ball covered in dirt and dried slobber, one half of a red and green pair, the other having been destroyed only two days prior—and sits at his feet as patient as he can be for a little play.

They go outside and he tosses the ball on the lot, and Bruno races to catch it before it bounces against the chain link fence. He never quite succeeds, but he tries and that’s what counts. They play fetch for a while, Bruno gets treats for dropping the ball when he brings it back, and JD snares the dog whistle from his desk drawer as he grabs Bruno’s leash and harness. He also swaps out these boots for an extra pair half a size larger.

“Wanna go for a walk, Bruno-buddy?” Bruno flies from one corner of the steps to another, pivoting from point to point. “Heh, alright!” He can barely contain himself as JD adjusts the harness into place and snaps on the leash, shaking it out as he stands up. “You wanna help me make Janis’ Christmas extra special?”

Bruno barks. He doesn’t care about Janis or Christmas; he just wants his walk.

He tucks the whistle around his neck and under his shirt, hooks Veronica’s shades to his collar, slips his mask on his face, locks up the Shed, leaves the CLOSED sign right where it is, and they head off toward the house of an old friend.

* * *

Jason is working the counter at the 7-Eleven today.

“Maaaan,” Jason says as he walks in with Bruno, “Only _you’d_ be crazy enough to come in here for a Slurpee in the dead middle of winter!”

JD smiles under his mask. Jason likes him. And he likes Jason.

Well. Like is a strong word.

At the very least, Jason _respects_ him.

“Not today, kid.” He walks up to the counter and slips his phone from his pocket. “Listen, I got a coupla errands to run on the downlow, so can I trust you to keep this safe for me til I get back?”

Jason blinks. Two years older than Janis and only a tenth of her intellect. But he plays his confusion off with a laugh, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Damn, Mr. J, you don’t look the type to be into some shady shit.”

He chuckles. If only he knew. “Nothing of the sport. Bruno and I are going to pick up a few Christmas gifts for my daughter and her mom’s got the ears of a bat, alright? If she hears me at the mall, she’ll know exactly which store I’m in based on the holiday jingle.” At Jason’s grimace, he slides his phone across the counter. “Look, it’s simple, aight? If she texts—if either of them text—leave it alone; if they call, don’t pick up. If I’m not back after two hours, turn it off. When’s your shift over?”

“A little over three hours.”

Three hours. Plenty of time.

“Perfecto.”

* * *

The George mansion is one of those houses that just can’t be missed even if you tried. That’s how mansions are. When he nears it, he puts on Veronica’s sunglasses and reinforces his mask with his bandana. Contrary to his thought process, there’s no need to jimmy the lock. From the looks of things beyond the shades, the Georges were planning a party. In the middle of a pandemic. Lovely.

All he can smell is the crisp winter air, but Bruno starts to whine at the smell of food, and he clicks his tongue to make him stop. “Later, buddy, later. Attention. _Now_.”

When Bruno is calm again, sitting at his heel, they continue on, maneuvering between waitstaff carrying boxes and slipping past the large man signing for those boxes. Bruno leads him right into their line of fire, right toward one of the large white boxes in his path, and the urge to laugh as the people carrying it swerve to avoid him is incredibly tempting.

Ah, the things he does for love.

The situations he gets himself into for Janis’ cheesy smile.

When he reaches the door, cracked slightly, Bruno nudges it open with his nose just as a blonde woman appears holding a glass of white wine and Bruno snaps at her, startling them both. He tentatively raises his hand, both to silence whatever thought she had in her mind and to show that he had nothing in his hands. Other than his leather gloves. And Bruno’s leash.

“I-I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, softening his voice to do his best impression of Martha, “I was wondering if I could use your bathroom. Bruno here decided he wanted to take the scenic route today. Though, judging by the commotion behind me, I’m assuming he was just following his nose.”

Mrs. George, smiling nervously at Bruno, who was growling at her, recovers quickly and steps aside. “Why, of course! Please, come in!”

Already he can see the similarities. Regina is to Mrs. George as Janis is to Veronica. He and Bruno step inside. Warmth floods his face. The lobby by itself is decorated to the nines with tinsel garlands hanging about the walls and curling around the banisters of the double staircases, lights lasting for miles bouncing off shiny, polished surfaces, and the smell of food is even more pronounced. Bruno groans, and JD does too. Internally.

He’s so glad he nicked the shades when he got the chance.

Mrs. George—June, if memory serves—grabs him by the arm and leads both him and Bruno up one of those staircases. She starts off very slow, one step every twenty words, prattling on about how the holidays are always such a time and she swears it comes faster every year and she thinks him dropping by for a tinkle might actually be a good thing for her daughter Regina.

“She’s been in the most _sour_ mood all month,” she sighs, shaking her head, her wine sloshing in the bowl of her glass, “I’m like, ‘ _Chin up_ , girl! You’re off for two weeks, no homework, no worries, where's your _holiday spirit_ , where’s your sense of _festivity and fun_?’ you know? But she’s just like, ‘ _Ugh_ , Mom, you’re _killing my vibe! You’re ruining my life_!’”

He grins when they finally reach the landing. “Yeah, my daughter’s like that too. They grow up way too fast.”

She gasps. “You have kids? Is she blind too?”

“... No, ma’am. She sees.”

She lets out a little “Oh!” as she leads them down the hall. This shuts her up though, finally.

“My little girl sees more than just the world, ma’am.”

“Oh, stop all this ‘ _ma’am_ ’ stuff! My name’s June.”

“Much obliged, June,” he nods, tightening his grip on Bruno’s leash. “She’s got her mother’s eyes in every sense of the word—I’m told when she looks at you, she can see what kind of person you are on the inside.”

“ _Oh_... You know, they _do_ say the eyes are the windows to the soul.”

He sees the door at the end of the hall, and his heart swells in giddy anticipation.

“I really must thank you, June. It’s because of kind, gracious, _beautiful_ people like you I’ll have enough time to pick up the best Christmas gift for my little girl.” He jiggles Bruno’s leash. “All this little guy can think about is the F-E-A-S-T he’ll be having in a few hours.”

She laughs. It’s not as nasally as he expected, but girlish and sweet. In a cacophonic kind of way. “That means a lot, actually. Thank you.”

They reach the door. She knocks.

No answer.

From the corner of his eye he sees June look over at him. She cracks open the door.

“Regina, sweetie?”

“ _Whaa-aaaat_?!”

With that invitation, June throws open the door to a pitch-black room and wanders in. He dips his head a little to peer above the glasses in a split-second scan to make sure there even _is_ a room to walk into. That it’s not a portal to the void like something out of Janis’ graphic novels. One nice thing about Heather Chandler was that she was just another house in good ol’ small town suburbia. The Georges are something else entirely, living it up on a mountain of gold.

Bruno whimpers, backing away and hiding behind his legs. He pulls him forth and sits him down.

“Easy, Brun. It’s okay, bud. C’mon...”

“What are you doing, sleeping away Christmas Eve?” asks June as she throws open the curtains to the large pink bedroom, not just to floor-length windows but to doors leading to a small patio. Regina groans from the bed, an indignant whine one octave away from a shriek.

“I feel like shit, _so just leave me alone_!”

God, he’s _so_ close.

The curving letters on the wall above the elaborate headboard spell _Princess_ in glittering gold. Surrounded by a mountain of pillows and thin curtains hanging off all four posts, a surly Regina George sits up in her high king-sized bed, pushing up her sleeping mask as he and Bruno walk in. She isn’t remotely fazed when she sees them. “Oh, _great_ , the rabble’s here.”

He turns toward where he knows June to be, but throws an arm out in her direction like he doesn’t. “This must be Regina.” Turning back to Regina, he offers a slight bow. Out comes the charm. “Pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty, but I was hoping you’d allow me access to your lavatory.”

She furrows her brow, folding her arms across her chest. “The ones downstairs are clean, why are you asking about mine?”

“I thought—” June chimes in, crossing over to grab his arm again, “it would be good for you to do something _nice_ for someone today. All it takes is just one little thing to get you outta this... funk!” She smiles brightly. “Doesn’t that sound like a fresh, fun, _Christmas-y_ thing to do?”

Regina stares at her mother with wide eyes, blinking slowly, her head slowly cocking to the side. And he doesn’t blame her, he can feel his cheeks flaming up under his mask and bandana. So _she’s_ where Janis picked that up from.

Regina rolls her eyes so hard her head has to move alongside it. “I _might_ have COVID, but _suurrrree_ , go ahead!” she cries, opening her arms and gesturing to the whole room. “Use my soap! Breathe my air! Touch my stuff! What do I care? It’s just a little pandemic!” And with a huff, she flops back upon her mountain of pillows, pulls down her eye mask, and smooths out her hair.

He scratches his head, turning to June. “Looks like the queen has spoken.”

She nods. “Yes. She has. Follow me!”

Just so he and Bruno know where everything is, June shows him Regina’s bathroom with its two sinks, her large walk-in closet with her handbags and dresses and shoes, a shower, a sleek modern bathtub, and, of course, the toilet gets a little room all to itself. After positioning him in front of it, she even lifts up the seat with her long manicured nails.

“Remember!” she says as she crosses to the bathroom door, “Sinks are to the left, the door is to the left of _that_ , where my voice is at! If you get confused, feel free to ask my _very helpful daughter_ who will be right outside the entire time! Because she’s not going anywhere anytime soon...” she adds under her breath, clearly clenching her teeth.

“MOMMY, FUCK **_OFF_**!”

“I’M DOING THIS because I love you, Regina. Also it’s Christmas Eve!”

And then slams the bathroom door shut.

Only to open it again not three seconds later.

“Do you get along with your daughter?” she asks sweetly.

He unzips his pants as Bruno yawns by the bathtub. “Most days, I’m lucky if I see her. But, uh, generally, I’d say...” he rubs the nape of his neck, “when we click, we click.”

“What do _you_ do when she’s being difficult?”

“You leave her the _FUCK_ alone like she asked!” Regina yells from across the room.

He can’t help but grin under all his cover. “I just... hand her off to her mom.”

Which isn’t a total lie, but nine times out of ten Veronica usually has it handled before he even blinks. She’s _that_ good.

“Oh!” June says, surprise evident in her voice. He can hear her nodding. “Good to know.”

And then she leaves for real, shutting the bathroom door behind her. Another door closes shortly after that.

He zips his fly, pulls down his masks, and takes the sunglasses off, bracing himself for the light by squeezing his eyes shut tight before opening them again, slowly. Running a hand over his face, he turns away from the sinks and mirror and lights to steel himself.

Let’s see what the modern teenage girl is capable of.

* * *

Foundation, perfume, hair products, blowdryer, curling irons, straighteners—there’s nothing for him to work with. No medicine in her cabinets, no drain cleaner under either of her sinks. He even ventures into her closet, not expecting to find anything and still being disappointed. Fuck.

He returns to the toilet and sits on the lid, running his hands through his hair.

He’s got no gun, no improv weapons, no _plan_.

Guess that means he’s gotta get _creative_.

Think outside the box.

He grins. Janis would approve.

If push comes to shove, he’s got Bruno with him. In fact, Bruno is so _here_ , he springs up, growling and barking when Regina comes banging.

“Are you _done_ yet?!”

“Ah!” he says, throwing up his hands, “Look who finally got up outta bed!” He gives a slow clap. “Brava!”

“Shut _up_. I need to pee—get out!”

He stands up right quick. Well, well, _well_! Little Pink Riding Hood just walks right into the jaws of the wolf. Serendipity-doo-dah-day! All he needs is one _perfect_ moment and then—

Damn. He made sure to close the drawers carefully, but he really should’ve paid attention to what was where. He may not be able to take her whole _literal head_ , but a bit of her blood in the fanciest little bottle might do. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Oh, yes! This is _happening_.

He _definitely_ won’t be able to top this next year.

He prepares himself, allowing his eyes the few seconds he can to adjust from bright to dark, motions for Bruno to lie _down_ and _stay_ , and inches his way from the sinks to the door by gripping the edge of the counter until he kicks the wood with the tip of his boots and pretends to fumble for the doorknob before he unlocks it and opens the door ajar.

Unlike her mother, up close, Regina George is everything he expects: blue eyes as big as a doll’s glaring up at him like his little Janis; pale pink silk sleeping mask, matching her pink silk pajamas, currently acting as a makeshift headband holding back long blonde hair frazzled from a night of unrest; and pink lips puckered in a perpetual pout tempered only by the occasional scowl or tight-lipped smile if wanted to turn on the charm.

Oh, yeah. He knows her type, alright.

“ _Move_ ,” she demands, hands on her hips.

He cocks his head to the other side, throwing up his arms in a shrug. “You didn’t say ‘Simon Says.’”

Rolling her eyes, she pushes her way in, past him, ignoring the growling Bruno scratching his nails on her floor, and shuts herself away in her private stall. He steps out of her bathroom and into her bedroom, waving Bruno along with him and Bruno follows, leash trailing behind him, rolling on his back near his feet, rubbing his scent all over that spot of the carpet.

He takes off the glasses as he quietly shuts the door. Now he can see; get a good look about the place with fresh eyes. He runs his hand along the mantle of the ornate fireplace—marble, maybe—topped with select photos of Her Royal Highness and two meathead consorts.

Beside the fireplace, there’s the bookcase—and he eagerly sizes it up. What a person chooses to display on their shelves gives insight to their character, after all: Veronica reads a lot of historical novels, both fictional and non-, with a dash of cozy mystery if she’s feeling spicy thanks in no small part to her small town upbringing; Janis has a habit of picking up books she really shouldn’t be reading— _Lolita, My Sweet Audrina,_ _Bridge to Terabithia_ —but unlike her taste for food, her palate is expansive; he himself reads door-stoppers. The thicker, the better.

He keeps an eye out for sharp things to whet his bloodlust.

There are more CD cases than published titles. In fact, there are no _actual_ books living on Regina’s bookshelf save a photo album or two and the thick pink spine of some girly scrapbook.

“Hm.”

The faucet turns on in the bathroom immediately following the flush of a toilet. He makes his way over to the foot of her bed where there is a chaise piled with throw pillows _just because_ and sits down, snapping his fingers and tapping the spot next to him on the floor for Bruno to keep him company. He’s got the glasses on before she opens the door and sighs at his presence.

“Oh, _good_ , I was really hoping you’d _still be here_.”

He turns toward her voice. Stares at her. Smiles. “Ah. You sound just like my little girl. But you use more words. She just goes—” and he flips her the bird, “‘Fuck you, old man!’”

He’s never given much thought to the notion of being a teenage girl, especially not one growing up in the here and now, but knowing what he does of Janis and her situation... honestly, he’s not even sure if _Veronica_ fully understands how things are. She knew once, but she’s forgotten. Willingly. Veronica chose to forget. Blue pill for a blue girl.

But Regina knows. The ones who have power always do.

And though she rolls her eyes and scoffs, she smirks. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Lizzy,” he says. First thing that came to mind.

Janis is also forgetting. There’s still traces of red in her eyes, put there naturally by her parents, by him. But she’s running out, and she won’t refill. For the most part, she’s content to just _hide_ herself away, licking her wounds, while the one who wronged her dives headfirst into the abyss with no fear whatsoever. But she _shouldn’t have to._

When she was three and some kid snatched a toy from her, she snatched it back without so much as a tear. When she was seven and felt patronized by her teacher for being the youngest in his class—she turned seven that year while everyone else was turning eight—she made such a fuss the principal had to sit in and observe them for the longest week of their lives. At the age of eleven just last year, her last time going to camp, when she suspected and then confirmed one of the more popular cabin leaders of the younger kids was up to no good, she rallied a couple of the older girls in launching a series of counterattacks on behalf of the little ones and successfully got _both_ of them kicked out for life. But she was still smiling at the end of it.

So what makes Regina George someone she can’t handle? What makes her so tough she won’t even try?

“Does she go to Edgewood?” Regina asks, folding her arms, shifting her weight onto one foot.

He shrugs. “She might.” He looks down at Bruno, pretending to feel around for him, and giving him a little scratch behind one of his large pointy ears. “She mentioned a couple of bullying incidents by the popular girls, but, uh...” he shrugs again, adjusting his glasses as he looks up at her. “I don’t know the details. She and her ma are pretty quiet about these things.”

“I see...” she mumbles, pressing a finger to her lip. She sighs a little as she eyes Bruno, but shrugs it off when she starts tiptoeing across her bedroom, past her fireplace, and carefully pulls on the spine of the pink scrapbook from earlier. He keeps his head poised towards her bathroom, only looking over when the thick pages flip in faint flutters.

“What’s her last name?” she asks, looking up at him mid-flip, “I might know her.”

Little does she know. “Sheridan. She’s a... ah, what’s the word you kids use?” She stares at him as he scratches his head. “Do you still call seventh graders ‘sevies’?”

She ignores him. Flip, flip, flip. It doesn’t take long before she’s thumbing through blank pages and puts the book back onto the shelf with a faint groan. Then she faces him again. “Door’s over _there_ —” she points to her left. “Feel free to leave _whenever_. Preferably sooner than later.”

He smirks. “Hey, you had your turn, let me ask _you_ a couple questions, eh? It’s only fair.”

She crosses her arms. “Will you finally fucking _leave_ my room if I do?”

“Abso-toodle-lutely.”

She considers this. “You get three questions.”

“Ah-ah-ah!” he says, wagging a finger in her general direction, “Since the start of this conversation, you’ve asked me four—” he holds up a finger as he details each question. “What’s my daughter’s first name, if she goes to your school, her last name, and if I’ll leave. So if you don’t want to add more to my count, don’t ask more.”

“What kind of sick _fucking_ game are you plan—”

“ _Ooh_ —that sounds like five.”

“I didn’t finish, it doesn’t count!”

He smirks. Four questions. He’s got a plan, but he has to be careful about it. He has to time it just right.

He has to get her back in that bathroom.

* * *

“Question one.” He stares at her, and she stares back, arms crossed, scowling, tapping her foot. When she throws her arms up in the air in that rude way to ask what he’s looking at, he smirks, gesturing to the shades. “I’ll let you in on a little secret: I wasn’t born blind.” He nods. “Mmhm. My eyes ain’t what they used to be, but I can still make out... partial shapes.” Reaching a hand out toward her, he places his finger in front of her face before dropping his hand. “When she was a kid, Lizzy used to help me see how much I can see by writing sentences on scrap pieces of paper. But now...” he dons a sad sigh, “she writes way too small. So I guess my first question is this: can you write down...” he rolls his wrist in pretend thought, “‘I just want to sleep,’ in _big_ letters for me, please?”

She furrows her brow, biting on her lower lip to keep herself from asking why. She knows if she refuses, it’ll only delay him leaving, and she wants him gone as fast as possible. And he knows she knows. And she knows he knows she knows. And he knows she knows he knows she knows.

She crosses the room and opens the center drawer under her desk. Pulling out a piece of printer paper, she scribbles on it with a squeaky marker. After about a minute, she opens the drawer again, tosses the Sharpie back in, and folds the paper in half. Bruno growls as she nears them, and she responds with an annoyed “Ugh...”

“Bruno, _down_ ,” he says, pushing his head down slightly.

She crosses to his other side and hands him the sheet there. “ _Here_.”

He nods, pushing the glasses further toward his eyes. She loops her ‘J’s and connects her ‘E’s. Interesting. “Tell me. Do you consider yourself a nice, decent person?” He looks up at her when she doesn’t verbally respond.

“I consider myself a person of quality standard and extraordinarily good taste. ‘Nice’ isn’t needed.”

He nods again, letting his gaze drop from her face toward the fireplace. “Fair enough. So do I.” If he could feel bad about what’s going to happen to her, this proves he shouldn’t. “Sometimes, good is not nice. Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind. As Baudelaire once said: ‘Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.’”

She heaves a deep sigh. “I _don’t_ _care_. Two more questions and you’re out. Chop-chop.”

“Alright.” With a grunt, and hands on his knees, he rises from the chaise and Bruno stands with him. Feeling for his furry head, he bends a little to grab his leash. “You might like this one. Based on how long it took your mother and I to reach your room, and the detail in which she described your bathroom to me, I’d venture to say you’re a very rich girl.”

She scoffs. “ _Obviously_.”

“I’d also venture to say you have an idea what teenage girls usually like in the way of Christmas gifts. Now, me—” he taps his chest with his hand, “I was thinking of getting Lizzy a nice handbag, but in case you couldn’t tell, I’m also mostly blind.” He taps his shades. “So my third question is to ask if maybe you could give me a hand? Let me get a feel for something of quality. Your mother mentioned you kept yours in your walk-in closet in your bathroom.”

“Of course she fucking did...” she grumbles. She looks at him, and then toward her bathroom. She even looks down at Bruno. Then, in a move he isn’t anticipating, she pushes him back onto the chaise. “I don’t want your dirty shoes tracking shit all over my floor again. I’ll get a couple for you to...” she trails off, looking at him. “Just _stay here_ and don’t move.”

He salutes her. “As you wish. Take your time.”

The second she’s out of sight—even just a bit before, really—he pushes himself off the chaise and leads Bruno to the door. Unhooking leash from harness, he slowly turns the knob.

“Run wild, _scamp_ ,” he says, giving Bruno one last scratch behind the ears, “Go fill your belly.”

He doesn’t have to tell him twice. Bruno bolts out into the hall, following his nose down the stairs and straight into chaos of the highest caliber. He chuckles as the sounds of women screaming, men yelping, glass breaking, and Bruno barking reach his ears before he shuts the door and twists the lock. Then, looking at the nylon leash in his hands, he smiles.

He makes his way to her desk; he has time to open the drawer now. Scissors, box cutter... exacto knife? Perfecto.

Regina is making a mess of her closet when he saunters into the bathroom, her note in hand—angry, bold words written in thick black Sharpie. He drops it on the counter between the sinks as he inches toward her bathtub, making sure the plug is in before he turns the knobs, much to her surprise as she turns around, handles of two clashing handbags in both hands.

“I told you to stay outside!”

His grin broadens. The commotion downstairs is swelling, much like the pounding of his heart. It’s a faint rumbling before the stampede comes, a boom before the lightning, a flickering before the lights snuff out: a warning. Pretty soon the chandeliers will shake and the floor will crack, and people will push each other out of the way in desperate attempt to cling onto any last shred of safety. Only he and the birds will be left standing, high above all else, uncaring, unaffected, but _reveling_ in the fall of the next generation’s monarchy.

He takes off the shades one last time, hooks them to the pocket of his jeans, and finally, he can see her in all her glory: the blonde Regina George, drenched in silk pink waterfalls, lying in her coffin dead. How beautiful she is. Powerful, red. Like Heather Chandler. Like Carrie White. But tainted. This girl is rotten to the core. Soulless. A doll without a heart. Tainted though he is, he has more soul and love than she. He had nothing but now has it all, and in spilling her blood he’ll only have more. And in this blood he will bathe his daughter, and she will rise from the remains like a phoenix reborn. She will remember what it’s like to be strong.

But most importantly, she will be _happy_.

“I still have one question left, _Your Majesty_.”

She drops her purses as he draws nearer to her, stepping under the threshold and blocking it well. She drops her cool blue façade but doesn’t back away.

“ _How long can you hold your breath_?”

* * *

Her eyes are bulging, big and blue. She’s struggling under his hands, faint, hollow sounds escaping her gaping mouth. He backs her to the nearest wall, pushing between the dresses and hangers, and with its support he lifts her up slightly. Her small hands dig into the skin of his wrists under his duster—a small price to pay, he supposes. For the next four minutes, six if she’s lucky, he has her complete attention, and she has no way to scream.

“ _Her name is Janis_ ,” he says through clenched teeth, tightening his grip around her small throat just a bit to make sure she knows and remembers. He wants her name to hurt the most. “My _daughter’s_ _name_ is _Janis_.”

“Ah—! _Aa_ —!” That’s all she can say. All she’s allowed to say.

His blood boils. There’s a spike in his system, a rush in his veins.

“Don’t tell me you don’t _remember_ her!” Tighter, tighter. “So what happened, _Your Majesty_? Did you get _bored_ of her? Was she too _je ne sais quoi_ for the likes of you? Hm?” She gets reprieve, but only for a nanosecond. “When you _took_ her power away, _stripped her down_ to _nothing_ like a piranha and _dragged her body_ behind your solid _gold Porsche_ , _tell me_...” Tighter again, so tight he thinks her eyes really will pop out of their sockets. “ _Was it as_ **_good_ ** _for you as this is for_ **_me_**?”

“ ** _A_** —!”

He drags her out to the bathroom, clearing a path for himself by kicking away a couple of handbags and dresses fallen off their hangers, and leads her to her bathtub, already filled to the halfway mark. He releases her to turn off the water, and in her desperate attempt to gulp down as much oxygen as possible, coughing like she has consumption between ragged breaths, she can only feebly kick at air and voice a _very_ hoarse protest when he pulls her eye mask down to her lips, scoops her into his arms, and dunks her into the water.

Sixty seconds, that’s all he needs.

She slips, legs sticking out as her head goes under. He allows her the one second it takes to come up for air as he makes his way to the slope of the tub, avoiding the splashes she’s kicking up as she clutches the edges and pushes herself up with a thick airy gasp. Her mask slips to her chin. He tosses his duster aside.

He presses down on the crown of her head with so much force she acquiesces. He catches one of her hands as she slips under again, pulling the exacto knife from his pocket and pressing the tip to the soft, smooth skin of her wrist. Poke. Her warning. Then he slices, breaking the skin a thin line across.

She violently kicks her foot against the tub. When she comes up again, she screams.

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“What is it you kids say? ‘Across the street, not down the road?’ Or is it ‘Down the street, not across the road?’”

She’s too busy crying to answer. Instinct tells her to pull back and he allows it, flying behind her to the other side and grabbing her other wrist as she accesses the damage he’s done, sobs wracking her silky shoulders. Her pink face matches her outfit, surely that must please her.

“You know,” he grins, pressing the back of her small hand to his cheek, “when Rudolph was shunned from his society, banned from playing any of their little reindeer games, his brain—” he presses a finger to his temple. Her finger, sharp-nailed and limp. “It interpreted that emotional pain as _physical_.”

He slices again, and she screams again. She looks at him, tears pricking the corner of her eyes and rolling down her pink cheeks. Her nose is red, her gaze unsteady. She’s trying to look angry but she can’t muster up the strength. He wraps her fingers around the knife and holds her hand in his, helping her get a nice, _firm_ grip on it.

“So! How do ya like _them_ apples, Your Majesty?”

“I always _knew_ your little freak was _fucking crazy_...” she spits.

* * *

He cleans up the mess in the closet, putting everything back in its proper place—well, as proper as he figures—hanging the dresses and straightening the handbags on the top shelves. As he closes the door, he pops the collar to his trusty dusty, and blows a kiss to the body floating in the bathtub, bathing in pink waters nearly overflowing.

So long, Rhoda. Leroy wins this time.

After making sure he’s got Veronica’s glasses and his masks back on his face, he hops over the puddles forming at the base of the tub and grabs Bruno’s leash on the way out, taking one last look at the note sitting idly by, written in the delicate hand of a naughty, selfish, _spoiled rotten_ little girl too blind to see past the end of her nose.

He locks the door to the bathroom as he leaves, and he’s reaching for the knob to the bedroom itself when he remembers.

He doubles back to the bookcase and pulls out the thick pink spine to the little scrapbook. Its pink covers are velvet, marked with kisses stamped in red on the back and stained by dark ink along the left side of its front. He can make out the word **STAB** on the top, and **MEAN** on the bottom left. Four black letters on white tiles and four white letters on black cut from who-knows-where come together to form the words _Burn Book_ in the shape of an eye, held together by one final stamp of a kiss acting as iris.

He thumbs through page after page, looking at the faces of girls he doesn’t know, reading things not meant for him. Facts or fiction, it makes no difference. Flip, flip, flip.

Then he sees her. On the penultimate page before all the blanks, he finds her at last.

His little girl. And his grip on the spine of the book tightens.

 _Janis Sawyer, space dyke_.

So _that’s_ what stopped her.

* * *

He slips out of the mansion undetected. When he passes the gate, one arm held out in front of him to pretend and feel his way about, he takes out the dog whistle.

Bruno comes running.

And so does a scrappy teacup chihuahua.

* * *

They take a detour at the local park and stop for a rest. Bruno paints the snow yellow and buries his shit in white. He comes when called for, and sits patiently while his leash is attached again, and leads the way through crowds of folks going about their quiet, insignificant daily lives. The only thing separating this year from last is the lack of white clouds of breath floating up to the sky.

His heart pounds in his ears, louder than ever before. Louder than it has been in a long time. He can feel blood _surging_ up his face, tinting his cheeks and nose red as it warms them even under the cover of his masks, sharpening his eyes. His puff of a breath slips under his chin like the long white beard of Gandalf, and he holds closed his duster and trudges onwards in the city with his head down like a child with low self-esteem.

When they reach the 7-Eleven, he pulls down the bandana and tucks the shades up over his head. Is this how he looked before? How long has it been?

Jason is more or less in the same state he left him, except now he’s distracted, snapping his fingers and dancing to a tune no one else can hear. He jumps to a stop when he sees him standing there, muttering “ _Jesus fucking Christ_!” under his breath as he yanks off his headphones and clears his throat. “Hey, Mr. J! Uh...” he sheepishly rubs the nape of his neck, “That was quick!”

He nods. “How long’s it been? Did she call?”

He collects his phone and slips Jason a twenty to keep his big mouth shut, picking up a couple of bags and a Slurpee on his way out. Looks blue, tastes red. He’s tried them all.

Old habits die hard.

When they reach the Shed, it’s all but gone. Coming back always seems to take less time than going out. He takes Bruno off his harness and swaps his boots for his regular size. While Bruno patrols the grounds, sniffing out squirrel tracks and barking at birds landing atop telephone poles, he leans back in his office chair, stretching his arms out over his head and folding them behind as he closes his eyes just for a few moments.

_Janis is never without her little black sketchbook, even at the table. She’s holding it in place with her elbow as she scribbles away with purpose and expert precision, resting her cheek against the back of her hand. She looks up at him when she notices him watching her, the right corner of her lips lift upwards in a grin, but she says nothing. She goes back to hatching until it’s time to eat._

_Veronica sits in their bed reading another of her novels. Her reading glasses sit neglected under the lamp because for some reason she’s hesitant to wear them, even though he insists she can make a turtleneck and glasses incredibly sexy because she’s Veronica Sawyer, his wife, and to him she is always beautiful. She giggles and tries to hide her blush between the pages of her book, peeking at him with the big bright eyes he fell in love with, still sparkling with girlish joy at his words almost thirteen years down the line. Away from the influences of her small town life, she is a remarkably modest woman with very simple taste._

God, he loves her so much.

He loves them _both_ so much.

If he goes home late, he knows where he will ultimately find them, and in spite of the circumstances tonight ought to be no different—they always do this when he’s late. He’ll go home to the porch lights on, dinner under a bowl with a note to heat it up whenever he’s ready to eat, and he’ll creep up the stairs and down the hall, and in his bed with just enough room for him to lie will be Janis and Veronica, fast asleep, Veronica’s arms wrapped protectively around their little girl. No matter how old she is, Janis always looks small in that bed of theirs, especially cuddling up with Veronica, who almost smothers her in blankets to make sure she’s warm enough, whose left arm sleeps just a little longer than everyone else’s in the morning, and who never refuses when Janis comes in at odd hours looking for a little comfort, whatever age she is, whatever reason she may have. Contrary to popular belief, the fears of childhood don’t just _disappear_ when you enter the double digits—they just go by more realistic names.

He exchanges Bruno’s harness for a paper bag from the supply closet a few shelves higher than his boots. If he gets home now, he has an excuse to keep away while Veronica and Janis each play hostess to their usual guests.

“C’mon, Brun!” he calls out the window, out to Bruno’s little strip of the Shed, “Let’s go home.”

* * *

There are two other cars in his driveway when he gets in, and he slips past them to set Bruno free in the backyard.

The first person he sees after taking off his boots is Heather McNamara, leaning against the threshold to the kitchen, eggnog replacing her usual wine. He greets her with her name as he pulls down his mask and she waves, calling up the stairs with her free hand cupped to her lips, “Ronnie, your hubby’s home!” before pushing herself off the wall and walking toward Martha’s laugh. “What? What’s so funny? Oh shit—is she telling the five-dollar bill story again?!”

He likes Heather. _This_ Heather’s okay.

When Veronica appears at the top of the stairs, his mood lifts. Still, he hides his loot behind him as she takes her sweet time coming down, descending upon him like an angel from heaven, stopping not three steps away, just out of reach, slender arms folded across her chest.

“Well, _that_ was quick!” she says, smiling her usual sweet smile and tilting her head to the side as she reaches out her arm. “I’ll wipe it down for you while you shower, okay?”

He smiles up at her, hand reaching up to push back his hair, the heel of his foot bumping against a corner of his brown paper bag. “Nah, I got it. You’ve done enough work for one day. Go... gossip with your friends.” She lets out a chuckle as her arm falls to her side again. He bites his lip. “Though... if you could leave some wrapping paper on the bed for me, I wouldn’t object. The rest of the stuff’s in the hall closet, right? Tape, scissors?”

She nods. “Should be.” Her confidence wavers. “Unless Janis forgot to put them back.”

That wouldn’t be ideal. “Are the girls in her room again?”

He steps aside as she leans more toward the right, her pivoting around the banister putting her halfway into the kitchen. “Game room. But they might migrate soon, so...” her eyes flicker toward the top of the stairs. “Tread lightly.”

“Yes, _ma’am_.”

She throws a laugh over her shoulder as she walks off to join Heather, Heather, and Martha in the living room. “ _Hush_.”

He takes her at her word and goes up carefully, holding the bag by the bottom rather than the handles, steeling himself when the door to the guest room opens and three little voices pop out. Gripping the handles again, he slips the bag behind his back, turning it toward the wall when four little girls all younger than his form a wall of their own at the top of the stairs. Five-year-old Daniella Dunnstock links arms with the seven-year-old Daisy Duke, leaving the two tallest of the group—ten-year-old Irish twins Rachel and Jessica McNamara—pressed against the sides, staring down at him with secretive smiles and girly giggles.

He nods to them, offering a placid smile. “Greetings and salutations.”

This always gets Rachel going again, and she hides her flushed face behind her hands before throwing her head back and calling down the hall: “Janis, your dad’s making a pass at us again!”

After closing another door, Janis makes her grand appearance behind Daniella and Daisy, resting her elbow on Daisy’s head as she, too, looks down onto him.

 _Her_ smirk is something he can handle, and actively adores.

His little queen.

She nods to him before her gaze falls to Daniella.

“Remember to hold your breath when you cross the bridge, okay? Just like Chihiro. Go!”

And one by one the girls descend: first little Daniella, then Daisy, then the twins, each one passing him with puffy cheeks full of air and loudly releasing them when they make it to the wall opposite the base of the steps. Ever the nonconformist, when it’s Janis’ turn, she doesn’t make a show of things—and neither does he. When she’s on his level, he grips the bag, keeping her eye as he walks backward up the stairs.

He makes it to his room.

He closes the door.

She releases her breath.

“Alright, who wants cookies? Mom made a shhhhhhhhhhipload.”

* * *

When Janis was little, and still believed in Santa Claus, they could expect to hear her little feet stomping her way down the hall to throw open their bedroom door and shout “Mommy, Daddy, it’s Christmas!” at them long before the sun came up. As most kids with idyllic childhoods do. Presumably. And Veronica would sit up with a yawn and beckon Janis to her, and once she was in her arms, Veronica would hug her like her favorite stuffed animal, tuck her between them, and fall right back asleep. Whether Janis followed her example was another story.

When she stopped believing in Santa Claus, the early morning visits were less rowdy. She’d tiptoe down the hall at a more reasonable hour, slip into their room, and sleep on the edge of Veronica’s side of the bed after waking her up.

This year, she wakes them up by throwing canvases onto their laps.

“MERRY Crisis!” she shouts, laughing her silly little ass off when Veronica springing awake jerks him as well, and his attempt to roll over almost knocks his present off the bed.

“Merry—” Veronica yawns, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “Chrysler...”

“And a helluva new year,” he adds, pushing back his hair as he sits up. _There’s_ that cheesy smile he loves. “Did you, uh, have a chance to look under your bed this morning?” He smirks. “ _Pops_?”

Veronica elbows him, clicking her tongue as she shakes her head. “Give it _up_ , babe.”

Janis’ smile sharpens to a smirk as she settles at the foot of their bed, half sitting on the footboard. “Well, _son_ , I know how _you little rascals_ get on Christmas morning, so I figured, let’s get it over with.”

He laughs. “ _That’s_ _my girl_!”

She slides into his arm when he opens it for her, giggling as he presses a warm morning kiss on her cool cheek, and crying out in surprise when he pulls her into his lap and goes for the other cheek. When she falls back over his arm, she reaches for Veronica, who’s too busy laughing to offer any help. Janis hops off his lap and runs around their bed to settle on Veronica’s side, peeking at him from behind her back, safe at last behind her perfect, beautiful mother.

Veronica throws her arm over Janis’ shoulders, pressing her to her, eyes darting between the two of them. “ _You two_...” she sighs, shaking her head fondly.

“What _about_ us?” Janis asks, blinking innocently.

Veronica sighs. “I love you,” she says, pressing a kiss to Janis’ forehead. “So _much_...” she adds, brushing his cheek with the backs of her slender fingers.

He kisses each fingertip, and then each knuckle, shifting to be closer to her. She breaks away from Janis to return his pecks in a more direct kiss to his lips, slipping her hand out of his to brush his hair from his eyes and cup his cheek.

He looks into her eyes and he sees warmth. He sees light. He sees a boundless love stronger than the gravitational pull of a black hole in space. If there’s one thing he’s grateful for when it comes to Big Bud Dean—and there’s only ever been two things—it’s that he dragged him to Sherwood, Ohio at exactly the right time. When Mercury went into retrograde and the stars aligned and he promised it would be the last time for a while—no, really, he means it. Because there, hidden in that little backwoods of a town, Veronica Sawyer was waiting for him.

Veronica is everything, and Janis is more.

He kisses her. He doesn’t mind the morning breath and hopes she doesn’t either. Because he loves her. He wants her. He _needs_ her.

And she kisses him back with fervor, biting her lip when she pulls away, her smile coquettish, a twinkle in her eye.

He smirks.

“ _AHEM_. I give you both your presents first thing this Christmas morning, and the _only thing_ you _actual children_ want to do is _suck face_!” And with this statement, Janis pushes herself from the bed, her back to them, arms crossed at her chest, and a pout in her voice. “ _Fine_! I see how it is!”

They exchange glances before they look at her. It isn’t long before she looks back on them with a teasing grin.

At his insistence, and Janis’ urging, Veronica unwraps hers first: a scene from her favorite novel, undoubtedly her favorite, coming to life in a splash of color by the hand of her beautiful daughter.

When he opens his own, he has a good laugh. Janis is clever. She’s smart, witty, talented, and so much more. Most things she inherits from Veronica. But some things she gets from them both.

 _This is not a gun_ , indeed.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Janis is stomping down the hall again. She’s stomping down the stairs, running into the walls, sliding across the kitchen, stumbling into the living room. He sips his coffee in his armchair as she fumbles with the remote to the TV, shrugging when Veronica looks to him for some semblance of an answer, her brow furrowing as she sets her own cup on the coaster on the coffee table. Shifting slightly, she adjusts the crochet mermaid blanket warming her legs and feet.

“Janis, are you okay? What’s going on?”

Janis ignores her, turning up the volume to the local news channel as the anchor comes on the screen. She sets down the remote and collapses beside Veronica.

“Regina George committed suicide yesterday.”

**Author's Note:**

> ~~“At least COVID didn’t get her.”~~


End file.
